


I'd Never Resort To Kissing Your Photo, Honest!

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [8]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Dolls, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Peter Parker, Pre-Slash, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26211856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Spideypool Bingo Prompt: [Free Space]Peter gets injured and recuperates in Wade’s house. To his shock, he discovers that Wade’s crush on Spider-Man runs deeper than he knew.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813951
Comments: 4
Kudos: 198





	I'd Never Resort To Kissing Your Photo, Honest!

When he was whipping through the air, shooting out razor-thin webs that stretched and snapped like elastic, throwing his body over chimneys, across rooftops and avoiding the odd satellite dish, everything moved so rapidly, his brain stepped back and his body took over, his spider-sense doing the thinking for him as his body moved too fast for his human senses to keep up with. ****

But when he fell from the top of a slate grey office block, time seemed to move as slow as molasses. The worst thing was, it wasn’t heroic. He hadn’t been stabbed by a mugger or a murderer, he hadn’t been shot. No, he’d slipped on a rain-slicked expanse of cement tiling and seen his feet slide, his legs shooting up almost comically as he hurtled backwards, over the edge.

The rush of noise, God, New York’s so busy, even at night, doors slamming, people walking and the constant buzz of cars. His legs kicked out uselessly and he tried throwing out ropes of webbing to break his fall. It slowed him down but—

The sidewalk was rushing up to meet him. He hit the ground with a smack, too winded even to scream. Pain hit him at once in several places but the most screaming, white-hot agony was his leg, which, as he found the strength to raise his head a fraction, looked to be lying at a Wrong angle. He slumped back down, taking in deep, shuddering breaths that made pain flare through him. ****

His powers could help move the recovery along, but he knew he needed to get his leg set before it could heal. He gingerly tried to move but hissed in agony as lightning bolts of pain raced through him.

He knew he couldn’t keep lying here, in this dark, filthy alley. Not just because the stench of overblowing garbage bags was making him retch, but the knowledge that any second, he could be discovered. It could take one drunkard looking for a wall to piss up against and they’d spot Spider-Man, _The_ Spider-man, lying like a beetle on its back, with one leg broken. A beetle on its back or a sitting duck? Wow, there’s a lot of animal similes to describe being vulnerable.

He tensed, trying to set aside the pain as he attempted to straighten his leg. The pain shot through him and he actually saw stars, not nicely-drawn ones accompanying a _Kapow!_ like in some comic book, but white dancing blobs in his vision, followed by some red. But the red and white remained, even as he tried to blink it from existence and he realised, with horror, he was looking up at a mask.

The red-and-white was familiar, and with a rush of relief, he realised it was just Deadpool. Thank God. Who knows what craziness his sorta friend/ally was getting up to tonight, but he didn’t care. At least it wasn’t a stranger.

“Spidey? What are you doing here? I swear, I’ve had so many fantasies where we’re in an alleyway together, but usually, it’s cleaner and you’re wearing less clothing!” The flirting was familiar too, and if he was in less pain, Peter would have shot back with something suitably acerbic. Deadpool was such a joker.

“Broke my leg. Help me up.” Peter managed to say.

Deadpool cocked his head curiously, but instead of extending a hand, he chose to pick Peter up, bridal style, despite the protests. He pounded on Deadpool’s chest, but he seemed unaffected. Which Peter had to grudgingly respect, seeing as how he _knew_ he could pack a punch. ****

“Hey no! That’s not what I said! Down boy!” ****

Deadpool hefted Peter’s weight easily, settling him in both his arms. He felt very warm. “I helped you up. That’s what you wanted! You want an ambulance?” ****

Peter shook his head, concentrating on breathing through his nose as his foot accidentally grazed the wall, sending pain spiralling up his shin. “Ungh—no—can’t af-afford it. Can you call me a taxi?” ****

 _"You’re a taxi_. You can’t go home like this. Do you live alone? I’ll come with.” ****

Peter knew he was asking out of concern, but he wasn’t foolish enough to disclose that information. Not because he necessarily thought Deadpool would do something sinister with it, but, you know, walls have ears. And Deadpool did run with some weirdos. “I don’t need you to go home with me, I can take care of myself—” ****

“It is just so _cute_ that you think you have a choice in this. I’m sticking with you, Spider-Babe, to the end. Now, I can take a look at that leg at your place or mine, up to you.”

Peter gritted his teeth. It was hard to look intimidating when A) Deadpool couldn’t see his facial expression through the mask and B) Deadpool was carrying him, very gently, out of the alleyway. He couldn’t let Deadpool take him back home, Aunt May would freak. And if he was honest, a part of him was curious to know what Deadpool’s place of residence was like. “Fine, take me to yours. Whatever.”

* * *

Deadpool’s house was a dump. He had no idea how many dollars DP’s hits earned him (although, he didn’t really do those anymore) but surely he could afford a better place than this? Okay, so interior design wasn’t his area, but did he really have to have so many empty pizza boxes stacked up against the wall? Every step Deadpool took got tangled up in some item of clothing on the floor, some navy sweatpants, the sleeve of a hoody, something white, probably underwear, that Deadpool hurriedly kicked under a table. ****

Deadpool plopped Peter down on the couch and stumbled off to the bathroom for medical supplies. He hadn’t bothered taking off his mask, gloves, anything, although Peter supposed he couldn’t blame him. Their friendship wasn’t at the stage where they exchanged their real names, or faces, Peter wasn’t sure he could ever reveal that. It wasn’t just about him, it was May as well. He had people to worry about. ****

He told himself he wasn’t gonna go rifling through Deadpool’s stuff, but that resolve lasted for all of ten seconds, and he sat forward, keeping his leg elevated on the couch arm, keeping one eye on the door Deadpool had disappeared through.

He found an old issue of the _Bugle_ and grabbed it, surprised to see DP actually read stuff. It was folded open at a specific page, an article with a big picture of a certain vigilante swinging from the air. He remembered taking that photo of himself. Huh. He liked the way he looked there, it was all thanks to his expert photography. Or expert skill at setting a timer on his camera. The man in the photo was Spider-Man, not Peter Parker. A masked figure, all hard lines and a shuttered face that gave nothing away. Not scrawny, mousy Peter Parker. 

Something was stuck to the page adjacent, a shiny silver foil, and he picked it off, looking at it with interest. Ah. It was a used lubricant sachet. He dropped it like it had bitten him, just in time to see Deadpool standing in the doorway.

“Got you some stuff,” Deadpool murmured, holding up a stack of bandages. Peter shifted on the couch so he was covering the newspaper with his body. ****

Deadpool dropped to his knees in front of him, unfolding the bandages and avoiding Peter’s face. Well, that’s what it seemed like. He could have just been super-duper concentrating, but then, Deadpool never seemed to give anything his full attention, he was like an overgrown puppy, pulling on the leash. Peter felt yanked in different directions.

Deadpool nodded to something on the couch. “You saw that, then?” ****

Peter’s heart dropped and for a second, he thought he was rumbled and Deadpool had seen the _Bugle_ , but relief flooded through him when he saw what the guy was nodding at, a letter resting on the arm of the couch. ****

Deadpool was still checking on the medical supplies but he muttered: “You know my name now. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna ask for yours.” ****

It was an envelope, a crisp white one, one of those official-looking ones that have a little cellophane window that show the recipient’s name and address. He looked closer. _Wade Wilson._ He looked up, at the strange masked man, now holding out painkillers for Peter to take. He took them, and the glass of water offered by a gloved hand.

“Wade Wilson. That’s your name?” It suited him. He couldn’t keep calling him Deadpool. He tried to think of another name that would be a better fit for the guy, but no, that was it. _Wade Wilson._ “Sounds like a baseball player,”

Deadpool, no, _Wade_ laughed, a deep belly rumble that seemed to sound startled on the way out. For such a talky guy, always joking, he didn’t seem to laugh at other people’s jokes, just his own. And now Peter’s. Peter grinned. He always felt some small sense of accomplishment when he made him laugh, really laugh.

“So who’s the letter from? You got an admirer?” Peter asked, mainly for something to say.

“Besides you?” Wade pointed a finger gun and clicked his tongue. “Nah. It’s a court order from the Fashion Police. They said I’m too pretty, I’m a public menace.”

“Wouldn’t the Fashion Police _want_ you to be pretty?”

“This lot is being paid off by the Ugly Mob. Now shut up, I need to concentrate,” **  
**

Peter huffed out a breath but otherwise behaved himself, lying still as Wade set his leg. He’d had to improvise, bandaging up Peter’s leg and strapping it to a thin wooden plank, as an ersatz splint. Wade told him it was part of an IKEA shelf he’d been meaning to assemble.

Wade had another surprise in store. He disappeared deeper into the house, and after several minutes of clattering and curses, emerged, brandishing a crutch.

“Just the thing for a spider with a broken leg!”

Peter gratefully accepted it. He’d been worrying about how he was going to get around until his leg healed.

Wade tried to tempt him to have a beer but Peter drank a coke instead, and they sat for a while as the painkillers tingled their way through Peter’s body. They drank and ate some chilli-flavoured potato chips from a share bag, rolling up their masks enough to eat and talked about their favourite foods. It was nice.

At some point, Wade nodded off to sleep, slouching in his seat with his head bowed. Peter smiled, slyly watching him from the corner of his eye. Wade was such an eccentric guy, talking to invisible voices, doing random actions that not even he, himself, was able to predict. It was pleasant seeing him so relaxed. And he felt comfortable around Spider-Man, safe enough to sleep in front of him. That knowledge warmed Peter, a hot nugget of emotion resting in his chest.

* * *

He watched him as he sat there and tried to ignore the throbbing in his ankle. Wade was still wearing his suit, but it didn’t look very comfy, sitting there with no pillow to support his head. The couch had no cushions that Peter could see, so it was with some trepidation that he hauled himself to a standing position and limped to the bedroom.

He didn’t know how Wade had obtained the crutch (he really hoped it wasn’t stolen) but he was glad for it, it made things a lot easier. He easily found Wade’s bedroom because the door was open and the light had been left on. Peter tutted.

* * *

If May was there, she’d have a few choice words to say. She’d probably chase Wade around with a broom until he promised to clean it! He couldn’t even see the floor, it was covered in junk. Tangled lumps of clothing, newspapers and magazines. Wade’s nightstand had enough drinking glasses on it that he could open a bar. And was that a bloody handprint on the wall?

Peter sighed, pushing a unicorn plushie out of the way with his crutch. The things he did for friendship! He was probably going to trip on one of Wade’s discarded sweatshirts and break his other leg!

He stumbled closer to the bed, spotting a pillow that he could snag but something made him stop dead. He gasped.

There was a body under the bed.

He could see two blue boots and legs. Peter froze but could feel no chilling tingle running down his back. His spider-sense apparently didn’t consider this a threat. He didn’t entirely understand his mutant sixth sense, but he trusted it with his life. He was beginning to question trusting Wade, though. Had Wade really killed someone and stuffed their body under his bed?

Peter awkwardly dropped to one knee, letting the injured leg lie straight in front of him. He was troubled to realise that his eyes were burning and his throat was clogged up with emotion. Fuck it, he really didn’t want to cry. Over _Wade._ But—

“You said you were going to give up killing. You said you wanted to do the right thing, Wade,” he whispered. There was no response, of course. Wade was sleeping soundly in the living room. Peter didn’t allow his brain to think any further on what he was going to do. He would have to call the police or get The Avengers involved or something. But for now, he had to investigate. He would have to pull that body out and rest his gaze on the poor soul who had met their end, staring into the white eyes of Wade’s mask.

He grabbed at the boots and pulled, and the body slithered out very easily. Too easily. It felt so light, it offered no resistance to his pulls.

Peter reared back, seeing a familiar red-and-blue costume. The head was turned towards him and the two mesh eyes were unseeing.

Wade had killed somebody…and dressed them in a _Spider-Man_ costume?

But as Peter placed his hand on their chest to feel for a heartbeat, he realised it wasn’t a body at all. It was light and firm yet kind of squishy to the touch, when he pressed deep with his fingers. The body was waif-like, there was no heaviness of muscle and bone. The head was far too light, there was no skull inside. When he felt for the catch at the back of the mask, there was none. It was sewed right onto the doll’s head.

Doll, yes, it was a doll. It had to be. But why would Wade purchase a life-side Spider-Man doll? Peter ripped his gloves off, so he could examine it further.

It didn’t seem like it would be able to stand up without being propped up against something. Perhaps, Wade had a decorative stand for it? Peter looked down at the body lying on his lap and the white eyes looked back balefully. No, that was ridiculous. It wasn’t alive, it couldn’t look at him. But what was Wade doing with one of these things?

He flipped it over, hoping to see a tag or something with the company name on. There was none. But what he noticed was that the pants of the costume had a fastening on them. They were simple press studs and he snapped them open, revealing the flesh of the doll. Its skin was pale and felt smooth and rubbery under his fingers. He poked it, prodded it, then threw caution to the wind and yanked its pants down. He was curious, okay? He just wanted to see…

Oh _wow._

The doll was…anatomically accurate. Peter was flattered that the dollmaker thought he was so well-endowed! He deliberately did _not_ touch its dick, but instead, brought the doll closer so he could examine its back. He recalled some snippet of information (he must have absorbed it from Aunt May’s ramblings or the television) that dolls sometimes have the year that they were made stamped on their body. Usually the back. There was no inscription that he could see, no date of creation, just more smooth, cold rubber. Silicon? He didn’t know, probably didn’t matter. And there was the doll’s butt. Great.

He put his gloves back on and gingerly reached for the doll again. A horrible notion was sprouting up in his brain like a poisonous weed, but he needed to be certain. He gently pried open the doll’s buttocks and…yup. Very anatomically correct. There was no doubt in his mind. This was a sex doll.

“Wade Wilson has a sex doll of me,” Peter muttered to himself, amongst the mess of Wade’s room. He had the childish instinct to flick the doll off him and take off running, but he couldn’t do that. He had to redress it and return it to its lonely home under Wade’s bed.

It was a strange feeling, dressing what looked like his own corpse. He kept imagining the doll sitting up and looking at him, but that was stupid. He pushed it back under the bed, squashing down an irrational tug of guilt at leaving it there. Then, he grappled for his crutch and staggered out of the bedroom.

Once he was back in the living room (Wade was snoring now, a gentle rumble that was more endearing than annoying), it was easy to pretend nothing had happened. They were just two bros hanging out, Peter was recovering from a bad leg and Wade was catching some shut-eye. There was nothing weird about it. Nothing at all. But the knowledge pressed on him, as if the doll itself was kneeling on his chest, bearing its weight on him. How often did Wade use it? _Had_ he used it at all? What did he do with it? Did he use it purely for sex or did he cuddle it? That doll had seen more of Wade’s body than Peter ever would. It was the receptacle for his lust, it accepted anything that he offered. And as Peter sat there, staring at his sleeping friend, he had the strange desire to march back to the bedroom and tear that doll to shreds. But he couldn’t march anywhere. Broken leg, remember?


End file.
